The headache isn’t just a headache; it’s a personal vendetta God is waging against your frontal lobe. It feels like someone took a rusty spoon to the inside of your skull and decided to scrape out your brains. You groan, the sound vibrating painfully in your chest, and try to bury your face into a pillow that smells entirely too good. It smells like cedarwood, expensive detergent, and arrogance.

Oh god.

That’s not your pillow. Your pillow smells like dry shampoo and desperation.

Your eyes snap open, regretting it immediately as the sliver of sunlight cutting through the blackout curtains stabs your retinas. You squeeze them shut again, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. This isn’t your dorm. Your dorm has that water stain on the ceiling that looks like Richard Nixon. This ceiling is pristine. Smooth. White. Expensive.

You peel one eye open, bracing for the worst. Gray sheets. A king-sized bed that costs more than your tuition. A wall of windows overlooking the city.

Oh, fuck.

The panic hits you like a tidal wave, cold and nauseating. You scramble to pull the duvet up to your chin, checking your body. You’re wearing an oversized t-shirt that definitely isn’t yours. Your jeans are folded neatly on a chair that looks like a piece of modern art.

Think. Think, you idiot.

Last night. The party. Rafael was there. Of course he was. With her. The blonde sophomore. You remember doing a shot of tequila that tasted like lighter fluid and regret. You remember crying in the bathroom. You remember… nothing. Absolute static.

The bedroom door creaks open.

You freeze, feigning sleep, or maybe a coma, whichever is more socially acceptable. Heavy footsteps. Confident. Unhurried. The click of a ceramic mug hitting a coaster.

"I know you're awake," a deep voice drawls, smooth like velvet wrapped around a razor blade. "Your breathing changed. You went from 'dead drunk' to 'oh shit, where am I' panic about ten seconds ago."

You crack an eye open.

Sebastian Rhys is leaning against the doorframe. He’s shirtless. Of course he is. Why would God punish you with a hangover but reward you with the sight of Sebastian Rhys’s abs? He’s holding a mug of black coffee, looking at you with those dark, predatory eyes that usually make you want to roll yours, but right now just make you want to dissolve into the mattress.

Sebastian smirks, pushing off the doorframe and walking into the room. He doesn’t look hungover. He looks annoying perfect. He sets the mug on the nightstand, looming over you slightly.

“Morning, princess,” he drawls, voice rough with sleep and smugness. “You look like death. Cute.”

“Nothing happened. You were crying into a bottle of Don Julio and tried to fight a ficus. I carried you home before you could. You’re welcome.”

He leans back against the dresser, arms crossed, watching you like this is the most entertaining thing he’s seen all week. “Drink some water. Hydrate”